


Bloodstream

by Elle Blessingway (elle_blessing)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: deatheaterfest, Death Eaters, F/M, MWPP Era, Non-Graphic Violence, Rough Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_blessing/pseuds/Elle%20Blessingway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No other woman meets him this way, challenges him at every turn, takes from him and is willing to see such a trespass to the very end.  No other woman lives with such abandon, expects so much of him, pushes him to the very last thread of his patience.  No other woman could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodstream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilia/gifts).



> Written in response to thilia’s [prompt](http://deatheatermod.livejournal.com/8502.html?thread=11574#t11574) at the [2011 Death Eater Fest](http://community.livejournal.com/deatheaterfest/27410.html). The title is pulled from [“Bloodstream” by Stateless](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYUt-V7iwIM), a song which I think really fits Rodolphus and Bellatrix in this piece.
> 
> I love Rodolphus and Bellatrix and was really excited to write this - especially as it’s intended as a sort of genesis story. I like exploring the emotions and motivations that pulled them together - what made them attractive to each other. 
> 
> Thanks so much to my betas, leigh_adams and goddessvicky!!

Bellatrix is not like the other young ladies.  She does not simper and avert her gaze when he asks for a dance, does not blush when he smirks, and does not simply shiver at the low rumble at his voice.  She meets his grey eyes as if to dare him to tell her not to, smirks back as if she knows things that a young debutant should not know.  She is only sixteen.  
  
She wears blood red when the others wear the colors of soft spring flowers and drapes herself in clinging black at weddings, dons beaded veils as if she were attending a funeral instead.  Perhaps she is, Rodolphus muses, for matrimony would seem shackles to such as her.  
  
She laughs when she wants to; always too loud, too warm, too intimate, and entirely indecorous.  She is not afraid to pull her wand, and does so for the slightest perceived offense when the other delicate blooms would look to a man for protection.  She says what it is in her to say, does what it is in her to do, and she does not care for the thoughts of others.  
  
Bella is like a burning comet tearing an unapologetic path through the pale stars that surround her, lighting up the sky because she simply wills it.  
  
Rodolphus watches her, and it is only one evening in the spring of 1969 that he realizes his gaze has caught on the scarlet curl of her lips, the milky paleness of her throat and the raven tresses she wears loose when propriety says she should have the tousled locks piled atop her head.  She has just turned eighteen, and Rodolphus realizes that she has become a woman, and that she is beautiful.

...  
  
It is the summer of 1970 and London is heavy with the heat, sweltering under the uncharacteristic humidity.  It makes their prey lazy and easy to come upon, not that such animals have any recourse against wizards and witches who are pure of blood and full of conviction to the rightness of what they are about to do.  Their prey has no magic, no wand, and their blood is no more than sewer water.  
  
It gives Rodolphus pleasure to watch her on nights such as these.  She sheds her cloak because she wants the filth to see the face of their death, and what is revealed is long, lithe limbs, white as moonlight, curved and supple with youth.  She always wears a pretty sundress beneath the Death Eater robes; black at weddings and flowers and cheer when they are on assignment.  
  
Tonight they must make haste, however.  There is no time to play with the beasts.  
  
They are being chased and his heart pounds in his chest as they run through winding alleyways.  The Muggleborn’s family has been slain, put down, and Rodolphus is pleased.  The chase that has given way, Aurors hot on their tail, is only exhilarating, and when they round a corner into the shadows Rodolphus grabs her wrist and throws her against the damp brick wall.  
  
She fights him, but he only covers her mouth with a large hand and presses her into the wall with his body.  A disillusionment spell is muttered, and when she hears it, she stills.  Rodolphus smirks.  
  
The pounding steps of booted feet draws near and he can _feel_ her heartbeat race, watches her lashes flutter as if the fact that they may be caught, or perhaps that they might kill again, is something of great pleasure.  Bellatrix is the only woman he has ever known who loves blood and sport the way he does, and seeing her react this way to danger, to doling death … it makes Rodolphus reconsider the contract that his father set before him only days prior for a marriage to the Rosier girl.  No other woman could compare to this woman.  
  
The spell and the shadows and their cloaks of death shield them, and the booted feet run by.  It is only when the echo disappears that he lowers his hand, though Rodolphus does not move away.  
  
Bellatrix’s smile is lazy, but she strikes as quickly as a snake.  Her hand is in his hair, nails raking his scalp, and she pulls his mouth to hers.  There is no hesitation in her, only want, take, have.  Rodolphus knows this adage.  It is why he claims her against the wall in an alleyway.  It is why when he’s buried deep inside of her that he makes her beg for him to finish it.  
  
She rakes his face with her nails and draws blood for demanding she ask, but ask she does, spits it in his face.  It only makes him smirk, the slightest curl of his lips, and then he hits the end of her.  His name slips her lips on a whisper when he gives her what she wants, and Rodolphus leaves his mark in blood and teeth at the juncture of neck and shoulder.  She spilled his blood, and he will have hers.  
  
It is when she shudders at this pain he has caused her, when she cries out her pleasure for it, that he decides he will have all of her, and only her.  There is no woman he will ever know who can match him like Bellatrix Black.

...

It is Christmas Eve of 1970, and Bellatrix is his wife.  She has chosen him above all others to stand at her side, and Rodolphus knows what that means to her. Bellatrix would never abase herself in marriage to anyone she did not consider her equal, someone she could not lose herself in, and someone she could not respect. It is because she feels _she_ is the one who has done all the choosing that Rodolphus knows he has made the right choice as well.  No other woman meets him this way, challenges him at every turn, takes from him and is willing to see such a trespass to the very end. No other woman lives with such abandon, expects so much of him, pushes him to the very last thread of his patience. No other woman could.  
  
They are well matched, and their lord blesses the union.  But, oh, it is nothing but a desecration.  Theirs is a marriage of the purest of blood and the most voracious of appetites.  
  
Her nails rake bloody furrows into his skin when he takes her the first time in her white wedding gown.  The satiny silk is bunched at her waist, and they do not make it further than the door of their bedroom.  She curses him, only to shudder minutes later with his name on her lips, a soft whispering thing.  She is his, for Rodolphus knows that Bellatrix’s voice does not soften for any other.  For the Dark Lord, it is reverence, but for him, it is passion and something more which he will never put to words.  
  
Later it is slower, and their clothes have long since been shed.  This time she presses her body into his, kisses him slowly and thoroughly for he has taken care of her many times over and she his molten heat and languid limbs.  There is no violence in her when she presses his wrists against the wall on either side of his head, but a playfulness Rodolphus has come to treasure for its rarity.  So often she is only the embodiment of the passions that drive her to spill blood, to take and to have what she wants when she wants it.  In moments like these it is a more subtle passion that threads through her and Rodolphus knows that she is his, inside and out.  
  
His grey eyes are hooded, and his lips curl into a smirk at the rise of her brow, the slow curve of her smile.  She doesn’t realize she’s asking him for permission, and he will never point it out.  He is fond of her like this, and if she were to know the small ways she gives to him, she would stop.  His black rose is proud and insolent, and contrary for the sake of it.  
  
Rodolphus leans forward to catch her lips, swollen with his kisses and roughness earlier, and then leans indolently against the wall and raises a brow.  She is to have her fun and he will be still for her.  For now.  
  
This pleases her, for she drags her nails lightly over his skin and nips at the chord of muscle where neck meets shoulder.  She takes her time, lips skimming over the hard planes of his chest, teeth catching at his nipples and biting down until he hisses.  Her fingers map the ridges of his abdomen, hard and muscled, and she traces her tongue through the valley of his hip.  He is hard and straining for her, but she only nuzzles her cheek into his length and casts her gaze up his body.  It pleases her when a muscle in his jaw ticks.  He has not moved, though it is obvious to husband and wife that he is only blazing action contained, and that she is playing with her toy, both daring and bating him.  
  
Bella presses soft kisses against his length, and then in a single motion she takes him into her mouth.  Rodolphus’ breath escapes him in a hiss, but he does not move until she begins to pull away.  It is then that his hand is buried in her tousled, dark hair and he is pulling her mouth back over him, his hips rolling into the molten heat.  
  
“You started this game, _mia bella_ ,” he growls as he holds her to him, grey eyes hooded at the sight of scarlet lips wrapped around him.  “Finish it.”  
  
The look she sends up at him is heated and angry, and a smirk curls his lips.  She will finish it, though whether he will be one piece at the end, he does not readily know.  It is because of this he is unsurprised when her teeth scrape and his eyes narrow on her.  Insolence expected, and repaid in kind when he pulls her off his body and tosses her onto the bed by his grip in her silky hair.  Before she can go for her wand, or turn on him and use nails and teeth to fight him, he grips her hips and pulls her to the edge of the bed, presses his chest against her back to pin her.  He catches a hand thrown at him and holds it to the mattress even as he slides into her.  
  
It is the fourth time this night and still they both shudder.  
  
“I hate you,” she hisses even as she presses her cheek to the duvet and pushes back against him.  He slides deeper into her with the movement and he watches moonlight skin flush with heat.  
  
“Don’t lie to me, Bella,” he says as he releases her hand and brushes her hair away to expose her profile and the graceful curve of her neck and shoulder to his view.  
  
“I never lie to you,” she snaps.  Even so, he watches her lashes flutter and her lips part as he pushes into her again, harder, faster.  Her fingers splay against the duvet and she’s pushing against him, meeting every thrust of his hips.  
  
“Don’t lie to yourself then,” he murmurs against her ear.  She does not respond, but Rodolphus does not expect her to.  She is racing for the precipice of pleasure.  
  
He covers one of her hands with his own, shifting slightly for leverage and then it is a race, hips rocking and skin slapping, and his other hand is splayed low on her belly to pull her back to him.  When he feels her shudder, the tightening of her warmth fluttering around his length, he knows she is close, and that is when Rodolphus sinks his teeth into her shoulder to mark, to bleed, to bruise, to claim her as his.  
  
She calls his name, and whether it’s a curse or a benediction does not matter.  Bellatrix Black Lestrange is his to defile, to keep, to glory in, to tame and to follow down the precarious path to damnation and hell.


End file.
